This blog showcases a collection of art, photography, writing, music and film that was either made on or inspired by the quais of Paris, France. If you'd like your work to be featured on the blog, please send your submissions to: leslie@lesliemcallister.com

Monday, October 22, 2012

Another Dose of Fiction from Mark Fitzpatrick!

Hello, all! This week, I'm very happy to to share two new 'quai-centric' excerpts from Mark Fitzpatrick's Paris-set novel Very Few to Love. In case you missed last week's post, Mark has been kind enough to go through his novel and pick out the scenes that take place around the quai for the purpose of sharing them here with us! Through these windows we glimpse a rich world of engaging characters and intriguing situations that invites us in and leaves us wanting more. Luckily, at the bottom of the page, there's info on how to contact Mark for the rest of the novel, and also a link to follow more of his work! Here at the top of the page, you'll find another of my quai-side photos. Enjoy!

Part III

She
led me down to the Quai de Montebello, directly across from Notre
Dame, stopping at a café-tabac to buy a ten-box of Gauloises and
four coffees. One noisette, one with sugar, two without. I
didn’t ask who they were for; I supposed I would find out soon
enough. We went down the steps by the Pont au Double, down onto the
quay. It was wide here, and tree-lined, benches between the trees.
The leaves had just begun to turn, and fall in small rustling drifts
on the ground. Almost overnight, summer had turned to autumn, and the
air had a brisk snap to it, though the sky was blue, and the sun
still warm. Near the steps, several artists had set up large easels
and were painting soft-focus monochrome portraits of cute little
girls while their sitters’ parents looked on. Further down the quay
were more varied artists, offering caricatures, beaded necklaces, to
write your name in Chinese calligraphy while you waited, to carve
your name on a grain of rice. We walked along past them, each holding
two of the takeaway coffees.

Halfway
down the quay, Jill walked over to a group gathered around a seated
figure beside a small but elaborate easel. He wore a long brown
overcoat, and a battered hat hung on the corner of his easel. His
hair and his thick moustache were iron-grey, his eyes under spiky
brows twinkled with tragedy and comedy. As he spoke to the two women
standing in front of him, his hands were filling and packing the bowl
of a pipe with black tobacco. The two women, mother and daughter
perhaps, had the healthy glow and practical clothes of American
tourists. To one side and a little behind the seated man was another,
sitting on the ground, his long legs sprawled in front of him. On
them, stained tracksuit pants were tucked into thick socks that ended
in battered boots, string laces undone. His chest was bare under an
army-surplus vest covered in pockets, from which poked various cards,
papers, paintbrushes, ribbons, flowers. His skin was nut-brown
tanned; under curly, greying hair tied in braids and beads and
feathers, held back by a dark red bandanna, his long face was intent
on the work in his hands. A piece of white stone was held there,
quickly turned under the chipping and gouging of one of the blades of
a solid metal tool. On the ground in front of him were arrayed his
wares, small figures smooth of detail in the white, porous stone. A
circle was chalked around them, and prices on the stone beside each,
proclaiming their vast value in francs and dollars. As he saw Jill
approaching, the man at the easel stood.

“Forgive
me a moment, beautiful ladies, but I see the love of my life is
approaching with my breakfast.” He bowed slightly to them, ushering
Jill towards him with a sweep of his hand. His accent was slight,
Eastern European. He held out his hands to Jill, took her by the
shoulders and kissed her firmly on both cheeks. “Bonjour chérie!
Your timing is impeccable, as always.”

“Watch
the coffee, Viktor! You’re going to make me spill it!” She held
the plastic cups out of the way of his embrace. I hovered in the
background, holding the other two awkwardly in front of me. The two
Americans moved off, smiling. As soon as they were gone, Viktor spoke
in a low aside to Jill.

“Ah
thank God you arrived now! These Americans were in-tol-erable! They
are content to listen to me telling charming stories and compliments
to them, but will they buy something? Will they sit for a portrait in
oils? Ha! They will rather pat me on the head and say, look, he is so
cute, this old bohemian artist! He will make a story to tell to all
the ladies in the bridge club at home in Nebraska. Pah!” He took
one of the coffees from Jill, and, after sipping it, breathed out a
great sigh. “Ah. Excuse me. It is only the crankiness of an old man
who has not had breakfast. Here, Ludwig, coffee for you. Get up, you
worthless wretch, and thank the nice young lady.”

Part IV

I sat
there and sipped my cooling coffee, listened to Viktor banter in
French and English with the other artists as they passed, or popped
over for a few words. They all seemed to know Jill as well, saluting
her with varying degrees of affection or wariness. Some paced about
with a portfolio under one arm, examples of their portraits or
caricatures clipped to the side, head up, eyes back and forth,
seeking a target for their pitch. They would fire a rapid volley of
offers to draw the cutest of any given family group, cycling through
the likely languages until they had hit on one that was understood.
Ten minutes, you don’t like, you don’t pay, here, sit here,
signora, come, sit, I show you. They would pause for a few words and
a joke with Viktor, before perching on one of the benches, on the
wall by the steps, or on their folding stools, drawing-board propped
in front of them, squinting at the pretty Spanish girl who sat
presenting a three-quarter profile, her two friends watching and
giggling over the artist’s shoulder as the drawing took shape.

Across
the river, Notre Dame rose in stony splendour. Where we sat, shade
had fallen, and the air was slightly chilly, but the cathedral was
bathed in golden sunlight. Passing tourists stopped often, to take
pictures of this grand old lady, to film each other for a moment,
standing across from her. Couples sat on the low wall at the edge of
the quay, the Seine lapping the stones down below them, occasionally
glancing up at the spires and buttresses and gargoyles, who peered
indifferently back. They’d seen the likes of these before; they’d
see many more. What’s one more couple who think they’re in love?

Mark Fitzpatrick is an Irish novelist living and working in Paris, France.

For more of Very Few to Love, or just to send your regards, you can connect with Mark directly at: